


String

by roxymissrose



Category: DCU - Comicverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-09
Updated: 2011-07-09
Packaged: 2017-10-21 05:25:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/221414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roxymissrose/pseuds/roxymissrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Joker thinks....</p><p>originally posted 6-04-2007</p>
            </blockquote>





	String

Arkham, Arkham. Home away from home. He's on his side and rocking back and forth—he's bored. His hands are wrapped in the sleeves of his jacket. Robe. Coat. Thing. Straight jacket. "Trussed up like a bondage poster boy and I'm not enjoying it, that's sad…" The lack of magic in his life is just appalling. No slipping a rabbit in a hat. Out of a hat? No dance of delusion, slight of hand—ah, Harry. What fun you would have had here. Who did you in, dear Harry?

He rolls to his feet, knees thudding into the padded floor. A wiggle like a snake and he's upright, wandering about the cell. Walk along one wall, five six seven …eleven steps and he's in a corner and walk along that wall…over and over like a robot, a doll. A mannequin, Quinn. Harley would like this, robed and over grown like an Ivy League building. Lashed, tied and at the mercy of—ooo, is that lunch?

A key turns in the door with the click, the door opens with a creak, and there are armed guards and lunch and freedom, if only for a minute. "Sweetheart, you shouldn't have. Is it low fat? I have my figure to think of. One can never be too thin…"

There's no point in trying to stretch freedom by dragging out the meal, these jailers of his have no soul. They simply take it away. Freedom is measured in bits of time doled out to him, timed like an egg--a hard boiled egg, a yegg doing hard time in hell.

"Jello, oh yum."

He eats. Eating is boring, always has been but it's a break from bondage and that's good. He watches the guard roll the ring of keys around his fingers, round and round, clicking and clacking and slipping slickly in and….

"Which one is mine?" he asks. A chuckle deep inside spills out thickly and the guard frowns.

"You don't need to know", but he does know, of course he knows. His key is the one that opens his door, duh.

The guard wraps long canvas arms around him and he drops his head back on the white, bleach scented shoulder and grins. "Lover boy, not so tight this time, waddya say?"

"Get off, you fucking freak."

Tied up again and it's lovely quiet and time to spend some moments on quiet reflection. He's leaning on the window sill staring through the bars and thinking about his shining star, his light, his reason for living. Blue eyes to die for, his sigh wafts out against the wired glass. Black and silver like the night sky. His destiny…meant to be. Ah love, ah life, ah death.

Do you believe a man can fly?

He has felt the touch and the beat of blood in their pulse and seen fire in those ice blue eyes…someday he feared, he'd be consumed in the fire. Someday both of them would be consumed by fire. Conflagrations and explosions. Erupting gases whirling and burning in the heavens smile down on them….

He rolls his shoulders and smiles wider. Click click the little bones sing.

In the heavens….

Weeping strings play sweet music when they orbit each other, dance around each other, strings bind them, cords of love, strings. Pre-come oozes in thin silver strings when he dreams of his love. Strings writing proof of his desire, the words flow out when he comes. Strings hold him in place. The world is strung upon the black wall of heaven…heaven.

On Visiting Day, Harley brings him peace. Piece. Strung up, strung out. She connects him to the world. She brings him a breath of spring—a string of spring that's strung and sprung, he sprang for peace. Piece. In her arms he knows a certain piece that brings him closer to the dance, at his pace, at his wish…resting, preparing to rise.

What ruled the world did not interest him because in his heart of hearts he knew the world was his already. Waiting for him. There were dozens of pretenders to the throne but that was fine. The World knew, he knew and That Man knew. There were plans in place, in motion already, crystal clear and perfect and moving like the waltz of the planets. Like the music of the spheres.

When he gets out of this place, the skies will bleed. Whole cities are going to vomit out their best and brightest to kneel for him to eat up with a knife and fork. And then—the joke would play out as it was meant to. Spool out. He who laughs last. He.

He.

Ha. Houdini laughed while the bar twisted in his hand, like magic—key to lock. He remembers the twist of heavy metal tweaking the flesh of his palm, twisting dry and cold against his tender flesh before it slides easily in his grip, warm… red. Crunch crunch the little red breast sings, crunch crunch. He remembers feeling impacts like warm liquor poured into his veins, the vibration like a dozen, dozen little dry kisses inside his skin. He had the most delicious feeling, and He lost his little bird, his little short pants around his ankles, leather gauntlets sliding between sweat slick, tight thighs no more….

Quoth the Writing Desk, 'nevermore.'

Not never been wouldn't be jealous. Jealousy is circular thinking and circular thinking is a round of non-productive mental masturbation—a circle jerk of the mind. Round and round like the keys on a chain, click click click—the bones click and slide, in his shoulder—the pain is a hoot for a long, long minute. But if Harry can do it so can he. Thank you Mr. Houdini—he dislocates a shoulder, and slips his arm through the loosened sleeve and pulls. It. Out. Buckles fly and he's out. Shh. Silent, slip to the bars, the moon tinted bars, and he spits out a coil of razor sharp wire. A kiss and a hug and she passed him the wire wet with intent. Just a bit in a plastic case. It made it hard to eat—but Jello was easy to let melt on the tongue.

He sings a song, and saws at the bars, until a single piece drops into his hand. Free, free, soon to be free…He leans on the door and waits…"Hey, you--yeah you, Lover-boy. I can see you through the key hole. Come in and suck my dick why don’t you? You watch me and wonder all the time. Stop wondering, champ." Chump.

Click clack the key ring flies round, the key to his cell clicks open the lock and the guard is in—and down. A tool is a tool is a tool. He drops the bar on his chest, and kicks what's left of his skull in disgust. "What a tool."

Every single key has a mate, and it's up to him to introduce key to lock, and let all the little monsters loose. He tap-dances down a long dark industrial green hallway, bare feet make little sound, but he hears the tapping in his mind, like the music pouring pure and high from the sky, crystal clear screams.

He's out, he's out, and free. He slips between the bars that define Arkham's land…you can never be too thin, or too slick--like a snake through a rat's tunnel he wiggles out, and dances out across the lawn and into the woods and into the woods.

6-04-2007


End file.
